


Magpie

by emungere



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy AU written for chomiji, who bought me in the livelongnmarry auction. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magpie

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks muchly to louiselux for betaing. Title and section headers take from the [magpie rhyme](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_for_Sorrow_\(nursery_rhyme\)).

**1\. For Sorrow**  
Cross folded up his card table and stuck it under his arm. The aroma of New York in early fall (i.e. garbage) clung to him, but at least he had a real apartment with running water to wash it off. Hustling college students filled in the gaps between pool and poker. He'd make his rent again this month. Things were looking up. 

He looked up, too. The sky was blue. The girl on the neon sign across the street winked at him, and he winked back. Some fucker knocked into him from behind and sent him flying. 

"Thanks, shit face!" Cross yelled after him. "Ugh." There was alley sludge on his knees. And he'd worn shorts today. He felt for his wallet. It wasn't there. 

He stayed on his knees for a second. Well. He still might make his rent if he got into one of the high stakes games. If he didn't get busted cheating. Or Ban might have work for him. If he didn't get busted by the cops. 

He picked himself up. It was only the fifteenth. He had two whole weeks. Right, okay. No problem. 

A hand shoved hard against his back, followed by a foot on his neck. His cheek hit the sludge with a splat. 

"Too late," he mumbled. "Pre-mugged for your inconvenience. Shit, that hurts." 

"Shut up. You two, keep going. You, search him." 

Feet pounded past his head. Something circular, metal, and cool pressed to the back of his neck. Cross bit his tongue and tried to think who he might've pissed off lately. Okay, lots of people, but not seriously. These were serious people. 

Rough hands pushed into his pockets, yanking out his cards and dropping them in the sludge. 

"He hasn't got nothin'." A boot toe planted itself in Cross's ribs. "Where's your wallet, fuckwad?" 

"Guy took it," Cross gasped. Ow, ow, ow. Broken ribs of motherfucking ow.

"What guy?"

"Guy before you. Pushed me down, stole my money." 

The first voice spoke again. "Our bird must've needed cash to fly. Get someone to Penn Station. And you, kid." He prodded Cross's sore ribs. "We weren't here, got it? This didn't happen. If you shoot your gob off, we'll find you." 

"Yeah, yeah," Cross mumbled. "I got it." 

"How much did he take off you?"

"Almost two hundred." Should get him a long way from these jerks. Cross decided to root for the guy who hadn't kicked him in the ribs. 

"Fuck." With that succinct summation, they took off after their buddies.

Cross gathered up decks of cards. There was one more than there should be. 

 

**2\. For Mirth**  
Magpie pressed a hand hard over the bleeding cut across his ribs. The wadded up toilet paper was not doing the trick. He'd need more, maybe stitches, which he couldn't get until his mule came home. 

He'd expected to have more trouble finding this place, but Cross Agneau had a legit driver's license and, apparently, a legit apartment that he paid actual rent on. 

And here he was, finally, letting himself in through the door Magpie had carefully picked and relocked.

"You must be very good with those cards to afford this place."

Cross froze and thawed, all in a moment. Magpie's gun, pointed at his chest, didn't seem to bother him. He dropped into a chair. 

"It's a roach-infested piece of shit, and it's rent-controlled."

"Even so. Your wallet's on the table."

"Yeah? How about my cash?"

"In your wallet."

"Huh. Okay."

"You don't want to check?"

"Either you're lying or you're not. Either way, you've got the gun, so what I am gonna do about it?" 

"Fair point." Magpie leaned back against the couch, trying to get his muscles to unknot. Tensing up wouldn't help the pain or the blood loss. 

"Guess you want your cards back." Cross threw a pack down on the coffee table between them. They slapped the wood, spun, and knocked into his wallet. 

"Those aren't mine."

The corner of Cross's mouth turned up. "Oh, yeah. My mistake." 

The next pack was Magpie's. He pocketed it. He hoped the dot of microfilm embedded in the jack of hearts was worth all this. He had no idea what was on it.

"Lucky I was there, huh?" Cross said. "Can't be that many guys wandering around with four packs of cards waiting to get kicked in the ribs when they get left holding the bag." 

"Are you hurt?"

"No." He shifted. "Yeah. Think something might be broken, actually. Fuck you, by the way. And your luck." 

"I make my own luck. I've been planning that escape for three days. Let me see."

"Let you see what?"

"Take your shirt off."

"Hey, again, fuck you. No thanks." 

Magpie hefted his body off the couch and stood over him. "I am the man with the gun."

Cross huffed out a breath that blew up across his face and feathered his hair. "Fine."

Shirt off, Cross's skin almost glowed in the dim light. There was a bruise already forming across his side, deep red at the center, like a bullseye. Magpie pressed his hand there, feeling for broken things under the skin. He got only heat and Cross's tiny, muffled noises of pain. 

"There's nothing broken. You'll be all right." 

"Yeah, you care so much."

"As you say." 

Magpie nodded to him in farewell and straightened up. He had a moment's dizziness and blurred sight, and in that moment, Cross caught his arm. Not his hand, not to take the gun from him. To steady him. 

"You're bleeding," Cross said. 

"I stole your wallet and left you to be beaten," Magpie reminded him. 

"Shut up. I have a first aid kit somewhere." 

The first aid kit contained bandages and butterfly sutures and antibiotic cream. Cross's kitchen contained instant coffee and fluffernutter sandwiches. Magpie bit into one and failed to keep his face entirely blank. Cross smirked at him.

"Good?"

"I've--never had anything like it before." 

"Freak. Marshmallow Fluff is one of the four major food groups." 

"What are the others?"

"Chocolate, bacon, and beer. Duh." 

Magpie felt his mouth pull into something rusty and tight. It felt like a smile, even if it likely didn't resemble one. 

 

**3\. For a Funeral**  
Ban had gotten in too tight with a bunch of Russian meth chefs. Cross got the call at 5am to come identify his body. The funeral was three days later. Cross was the only one there. 

It was raining. That was the way of funerals. It'd been raining for his mother's. He'd been the only one there, too. He was actually sadder about Ban. 

He squatted down by the graveside and ignored the guy with the backhoe waiting to fill it in and get out of the weather. He tossed down a handful of dirt. It landed with a wet smack. 

"I could always count on you," he said. "Okay, generally to be a complete dick, but still. I'll miss you," he added, after a second. He could hear Ban laughing at him for being a wuss. Whatever. 

The backhoe growled into life as he walked away. That was it, the last of his friends in the city gone or dead and buried. It hardly seemed worthwhile making new ones. He still had his rent controlled apartment. He still had a steady income from very little real work. The girls liked him. Lots of other people had it worse. He nodded to himself. Lots of people. 

That guy there, for instance. He was standing at the crest of a low hill with a bunch of sunflowers in his hand. He'd been standing there since Cross entered the cemetery. He must have loved whoever that grave belonged to an awful lot to stand there in the rain so long. 

Now, finally, he set the flowers down and turned, and Cross saw his face. It was his wallet thief from last year. He vanished over the crest of the hill, and Cross tore after him at an unseemly pace through the rows of the dead. He didn't catch the name on the gravestone, but he saw the date of death: October 8, 2008, only last month. 

The guy was getting into a sleek, black car. "Hey!" Cross yelled. "Hey! I don't know your fucking name!" Which was a pretty horrible thing to yell in a graveyard to a guy who'd just been to visit his--girlfriend, sister, mother, father's?--grave. He didn't care. The guy stopped. And waited for him. 

Cross caught up with him, panting, and grabbed his coat. He could feel the gun there underneath, knocking against his knuckles. "Hey," he said again, breathless. 

"It won't do you any good to be seen with me. You should be more careful." 

"Who are you in with? Organized crime? The Russians? Ban was in with the Russian meth guys, look where it got him."

The guy frowned. "Ban?"

"My buddy. I buried him today." 

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry about your--yours. Too." He paused. "Who was it?" 

"My sister." 

"She liked sunflowers, huh?"

"They were her favorite." 

"You should get out," Cross told him, stupidly, pointlessly. He grabbed another handful of coat, crowding into the guy's personal space. Maybe Ban's death had hit him harder than he'd thought. "You should get out before someone's bringing you sunflowers." 

"I prefer poppies. The red ones."

"The kind they use to make heroin?"

"The kind they use to remember fallen soldiers." 

"You're not a goddamn soldier!" Cross watched bits of his saliva fleck the guy's lips. "You're just a fucking pawn to these people, you're nothing, you're cannon fodder. You're shit on their boots, okay? Get out before you get dead. I ain't bringing you poppies." 

"I think you would." 

Cross shoved him back against the car door and let him go. "Whatever, man. I don't know you. I don't even know your name." 

"They call me Magpie. Because I talk too much." 

"Fucking hilarious," Cross muttered. 

"I used to think so, too." Magpie stiffened. "Get in the car," he said. 

"What? I took the bus." 

"Get in _my_ car. Now." 

Cross didn't get a choice. Magpie opened the door, shoved him in and crawled over him to get to the driver's seat. Cross only saw the black Suburban behind them as they screeched away from the curb. No one was shooting at them yet, but he saw the glint of some serious firepower through the tinted windshield.

"Fuck! I do not want in on your crazy drug games! They're gonna think I'm with you now."

"They thought that the second they saw you. There's no room in our world for coincidence." 

"Isn't it enough you got your sister dead? I don't want to be part of your--" _Body count_ , he'd meant to say, but Magpie's eyes stopped him. Here was a dude, Cross's hindbrain said, on the verge of snapping. You don't want him to snap at you. 

"They killed her in front of me," Magpie said. 

 

**4\. For a Birth**  
She was safe. The Company had assured him she was safe. This, therefore, was not his sister standing in front of him, handcuffed, bloodied, one eye swollen shut. He recognized her nightgown though, the one with Garfield and Odie on it. She'd had it since her junior year of high school. There was a rip across the front, and it hung open, exposing almost all of one breast. 

Water dripped from the warehouse ceiling with an echoing plink-plunk. Magpie shifted in his chair. Blood oozed down to his palms from where the rope had cut into him. The doctor put his hands on her shoulders and smiled. 

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Magpie said. 

And he did. He told them names, dates, plans, communication networks, codes, drop locations. For hours. The doctor held out his little digital recorder and smiled.

When Magpie was done and they couldn't think of anything else to ask him, they dragged her out and left him there. He dislocated his shoulder getting free. He found her body lying outside in the mud.

His next memory was of the building in flames and the screams of half a dozen guards as he gutted them, one after another. He had their guns, then, and he shot his way out of the compound, knowing he'd have to go back. They weren't all dead. 

 

**5\. For Heaven**  
"Holy shit," Cross whispered. "You're not-- This isn't drug stuff. Is it." 

"I work for the government. I did work for the government. I talked. Now I am a liability."

"But they had your sister!" 

"It's not an excuse. They killed her anyway, as I should've known they would. As I did know they would."

"So those guys--" 

The guys in question and in the black Suburban shot round the corner after them. Magpie made an abrupt turn into parking garage.

"I don't know whether they're Company or opposition. It doesn't matter. The Company's goals are no longer my goals." 

"What? What fucking company?"

"The CIA."

"Holy shit," Cross said again. 

They rocketed out the other side of the parking garage and almost directly into the side of a tanker truck stopped in front of the entrance. 

"Out of the car," Magpie said. 

Cross scrambled to follow him. Magpie grabbed his hand, yanked him under the tanker, out the other side, and stuck his gun through some poor Honda owner's window. 

They huddled in the backseat, gun to the driver's side. Cross could see the man's hands shaking. He took them four slow, city-traffic blocks.

"Thank you," Magpie said as they got out. He gave the man a hundred dollar bill. 

Macy's loomed up in front of them, and they disappeared into a mirrored, perfumed labyrinth of make-up and lingerie. Cross barely breathed again until they found their way out, down to the subway, back up again, and into a shabby residential hotel. 

"We're safe now?" he asked. 

Magpie made a noncommittal noise and pulled out his phone. 

"Who are you calling?"

"My runner. I need to know if they actually want me dead or just brought in." He punched in a number. "Bullet points," he said, presumably when the line had been picked up. "The man with me is not with me. Wrong place, wrong time. He knows nothing. I haven't killed any of your people, and I could have. You know my intentions. What are yours?" 

Magpie was quiet a long time, listening. 

"That's not an offer I was expecting," he said. "Do you think there's any chance of retrieval?"

More silence. 

"I'll consider it. No. Tomorrow. Because I haven't slept through the night in three weeks, that's why." He paused. "His name is Cross. Yes. Does it matter?" Another pause. " _No_ , and I'm hanging up now." He did, and stared at his phone.

"What was that?" Cross said, not expecting an answer.

"They want me to get it back. The information I gave the doctor."

"What? How?" 

"They have a source who says he keeps the recording with him. He hasn't copied it. He hasn't used it. He just--listens to it. To me." 

His voice cracked and splintered on the last two words. Cross expected tears to go with that voice, or a scream. There was nothing. His eyes fixed on the opposite wall, where they should've burned holes right through the faded print of two puppies in a boot. 

Cross touched his arm. "So, say you get it back. Then what?" 

"Then I am once more welcomed into the fold. At least until my next psych eval, after which they will likely either transfer me to a padded room or wet ops." 

"Doesn't sound like much to look forward to."

Cross fidgeted. Magpie continued to mentally incinerate puppies. 

He didn't quite dare ask what Magpie had said about him, or what the guy on the phone had wanted to know. Would they leave him alone? He thought he already knew the answer to that. He bit the inside of his cheek hard. Now was not a good time to freak out. 

"Magpie is, like, your code name?"

"Yes."

"You got a real name?" 

He paused. "My sister's name was Maggie."

"I ain't calling you Maggie." 

Magpie shot him a cross look. "I wasn't suggesting you should." He blinked and shook his head, looking around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. "This place is--not going to have room service, is it?" 

Cross choked on a laugh. "Yeah, no, not so much." 

They got falafel from a street vendor downstairs, and two Snickers bars. Magpie washed his hands thoroughly in the grimy sink before he sat down to eat. 

"You think what's on your hands is gonna be worse than what's in his cart?" 

"I'm sure of it," Magpie said, with a creepy little smile. He looked up from his food to Cross, smile thankfully fading. "Anyway, you have to wash your hands before you eat. It's good manners." 

He looked so expectant that Cross actually did get up and wash his hands. He even splashed his face. Surprisingly, he felt better afterward. They ate falafel. Magpie tried to give Cross his Snickers, but Cross wasn't having it. 

"It's chocolate, eat it. It's good for you."

"One of the four major food groups," Magpie said. 

"Hey, yeah. That's right. You remembered." 

Magpie offered him a very small smile. "Bacon, beer, and marshmallow fluff." 

His glasses had slipped down to the very tip of his nose, and his hair was falling in his eyes. He looked, abruptly, very young. 

"Not much of a balanced meal, huh?" Cross gestured at the remains of their falafel. 

"I suppose not. At least we have the chocolate." 

They ate their Snickers bars in silence. Cross's muscles started to unknot. Their knees touched, and their shoulders bumped together. Magpie was warm, even through the coat he hadn't yet taken off. 

"Now what?" Cross said. 

"I have to sleep. I've been up for forty eight hours." He got up, produced dental floss from his jeans pocket and went to work on his teeth. "Do you want some?" he asked. "It's mint flavored. Dental hygiene is very important." 

Cross gave in and flossed. They scrubbed their teeth afterward with a tiny tube of toothpaste and their fingers substituting for brushes. 

"Mm, minty fresh," Cross said. 

"Yes." Magpie was staring at his mouth. 

"Do you want me to stay up and keep watch?" 

Magpie wavered visibly, and then swayed. He dropped down to sit on the bed. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

"No." 

"Do you think you could kill whoever came through the door, without question or warning?"

Cross swallowed, and then shook his head. 

Magpie's face softened, giving the impression of a smile with no actual muscle movement. "Honesty is important. Yes, keep watch." 

He lay down, still with his coat on, and folded his hands on his stomach. His breathing was even to start with. There was no way to tell when he slipped into sleep. 

His face was still as death, and Cross watched for the motion of his chest with each breath, another and another and another, never with any real faith that the next would come. He felt himself drifting with it, breathing in time with him. 

He kicked off his shoes and hoisted his legs onto the bed. It dipped and squeaked, but Magpie didn't stir. He was giving off a feverish heat that lured Cross closer. Cross himself was chilled, the dregs of adrenaline pouring from his body in a cold sweat. 

Magpie's shoulder was solid muscle. Cross put his hand there firmly, half-expecting a sudden awakening and a gun to his head. Instead, Magpie turned toward him in his sleep, and his head rolled to rest against the inside of Cross's forearm. Cross folded the bedspread over them both and stayed still while his hand went to sleep. 

Magpie slept for hours. It should've been boring. Instead, it felt like the most important thing Cross had ever done. He heard people pass in hall, heard the plumbing cry and grumble, heard, almost, the paint dry. The cracked paint, the stained ceiling, the puppies all became familiar, and he started to see more. He saw the way shadows moved in the windows of the building across the street. He saw the minor changes of expression on Magpie's face. He felt awake. 

Magpie woke toward 2am. He looked up at Cross and pulled him down across his body. 

Cross gulped. "Is that a gun in your pocket or..."

"It is, actually." 

Cross lay there and felt the unyielding metal against his hip. Magpie turned his head and negotiated a meeting of lips, very dry. Cross's mouth was dry, too. Magpie shifted, and his gun shoved against Cross's thigh in a way that was sure to leave a bruise. Their noses got in the way. Cross got a mouthful of Magpie's hair. 

Cross expected Magpie to give up after that, but he didn't. He set the gun close by on the bed, free of the tangle of bedspread. He held Cross's face perfectly still with both hands and tried again. 

It was better, warmer, wetter. Cross wanted to ask why he was doing this, if there was any attraction at all or if it was just for touch, for comfort, for not being alone. Maybe it didn't matter. Not being alone was a pretty good reason. 

Magpie's tongue pressed into his mouth. Cross tasted his toothpaste and the faint stale taste of sleep. The kiss went on and on, slippery and mouth-filling. Cross started to feel faint before he remembered he had another breathing option other than his mouth. He sucked in air through his nose and filled up his head with Magpie's scent; more toothpaste, sweat, dirt, something metallic. 

Magpie pulled back and looked at him, blinking. 

"Can we get under the sheets?" Cross said. "This bedspread is kind of grossing me out." He was pretty sure that stain couldn't really be blood. Pretty sure. 

They got between the sheets. 

"Shoes off," Cross told him. 

"Oh, yes." 

Magpie blinked at him through dark, heavy lashes. More kisses. A scream on the street outside that made them both tense before it ended in high pitched laughter. The street lamp flickered orange through the vertical blinds. 

Magpie put a hand between Cross's legs. 

"You _are_ hard," he said, over Cross's undignified squeak. 

"Uh, _yeah_." 

"You've gone along with so much today. I thought you might just be going along with this, too." His eyes were creased at the edges, and his voice was warm.

Cross poked him in the ribs. "Hey."

For a second, they both smiled. Magpie rubbed the heel of his hand against the ridge in Cross's jeans, and Cross's smile faded while Magpie's grew. 

Things went very fast after that. Cross's brain and nerves never caught up to Magpie's hands, which seemed to be everywhere all at once. Mostly they were down his pants and on his bare cock, but somehow they found the time to pull Cross's hands into the same position on Magpie's cock. His belt jingled where it knocked against Cross's knuckles. 

"You're still wearing your coat," Cross said. 

"What?"

"Take off your coat and stay a while." He let out a stupid little giggle at that. "God. I feel drunk or something." 

Magpie squeezed his cock lightly and stroked him hard. The urge to giggle vanished. Their hands moved in counterpoint, and Cross pressed closer, right up against Magpie's body, breathing in harsh puffs of air against his neck. He shoved into Magpie's hand and kept his own hand moving when he came. Neither of them stopped until they were both sticky and trembling. 

Magpie put his hands--come and all--on Cross's face and kissed him. Cross grabbed onto his shoulders and didn't let go. 

Someone pounded on the door. 

They pulled back and stared at each other. 

"Shit," Cross whispered. 

Magpie brought his hand up, gun somehow already in it. 

On the other side of the door, a voice said, "It's me, you fucking moron. Open up." 

 

**6\. For Hell**  
Zef sat on the bed and lit a new cigarette with the corpse of the old. He looked from Magpie to Cross over his glasses. 

"Just what you need. Another hostage to fortune." 

"You're going grey," Magpie said. 

Zef ran a hand over his cropped hair. "Try white. And your fault. You shouldn't have run." 

"So, they aren't going to kill us?" Cross said. 

Magpie put up his weapon. Guy, standing by the door, did the same. "Not right now. This is Zef, my runner. And this is Guy."

Guy grinned and waved. 

"Guy doesn't get an explanation?"

"They can't explain me," Guy said. 

It was true. Maybe Zef could, but he never had. He'd brought Guy back from a mission to Guangzhou five years ago. He'd taken a lot of shit over it, more than Magpie had seen him take over anything without snapping and shoving someone's face through a wall. 

Zef gave Cross another look, and then turned back to Magpie. "Bathroom," he said, and got up without waiting for Magpie to agree or follow. 

When they were shut in together with the sickly green tile and the shower stall like a coffin, Zef sat on the toilet lid and looked up at him. 

"He's in the Argentine compound. The Company is unwilling to provide backup." 

"I expected that." 

"What's your gameplan?"

"I think you know already."

Zef blew smoke at the ceiling and propped an elbow on the toilet tank. "Go in, kill everyone, destroy the recording."

"Yes." 

"Lacks an exit strategy."

"Yes."

Zef and Magpie had known each other a long time. The silences they left did a lot of their talking for them. 

"You're leaving the boytoy with me?" Zef said, finally. 

"Yes." 

"Is he an asset?"

" _No._ " Magpie paused, recovering himself. "He's just-- He's not involved. Don't involve him."

"You'll trust me with him after what happened to Maggie?"

"That wasn't you. I should've left her with you. Anyway, he'll be safe enough after I'm gone." 

"There's no chance you'll reconsider," Zef said. It wasn't really a question.

"No." 

"What do you need?"

"A contact down there who can arm me. Papers. Transportation." 

"All taken care of." Zef handed him a sealed manila envelope. "Your flight leaves in three hours." 

Magpie opened the envelope and checked to make sure everything was in order. He frowned. "This isn't one of my normal aliases. And this-- I know the TSA has rather overstepped their bounds, but I don't think anyone's going to ask for my passport, driver's license, birth certificate, _and_ social security number." 

Zef shrugged, face blank. His cigarette was cherry red and burning down toward his lips. 

"I won't need this." 

"Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it." 

Magpie frowned at the papers spread across his lap. You didn't give a man on a suicide mission a new life. It was a waste of resources. "Fine," he said, at last. 

"Suitcase for you in the car." Zef handed him the keys. "Silver Accord. Better get going before someone steals it." 

Magpie nodded and walked out, past Zef, past Guy, just outside the bathroom door. He put on his shoes and left without looking at Cross. He heard a shout behind him, a scuffle, and what was probably the sound of Guy restraining Cross. It was for the best. 

***

The contact in Argentina outfitted him with a set of throwing knives, two Browning 9mms, and a 6.5 Grendel assault rifle, which struck Magpie as almost too appropriate. He'd had to turn down the Beowulf. 

The doctor's compound rose out of the Patagonian Steppe like some hostile animal. Its curves were disturbingly biological, and, viewed from far off through Magpie's binoculars, it looked ready to get up and lumber toward him. 

He walked. It was far quiet than any vehicle could be and less likely to get him noticed than a horse or a donkey. It gave him time to examine the landscape, not just for strategic reasons, but with an eye to the geology of the place. He'd never seen diorite quite like that before. It was a pity he didn't have more time. 

When he got close enough, he rolled under a supply truck and clung to the undercarriage. No one stopped it to check for bombs or hitchhikers. The doctor was overconfident, or simply uncaring. 

Magpie slipped away in the flurry of unloading and wedged himself into a shadowed corner. Two minutes later, his cell vibrated in his pocket. It was a text message with a picture of Cross attached. Someone was holding a gun to Cross's temple. He looked pale and scared. 

In the minutes Magpie stared at that little collection of glowing pixels, it was his whole focus and attention. Anyone could've crept up on him. They could've had him without a fight. Once he recovered, Magpie took this to mean that the timing of the text was coincidence. The doctor didn't know he was here; was, perhaps, trying to lure him in. He had an advantage, then. 

He texted Zef while he thought. _You let them get him._

Zef didn't write back. Magpie gave a moment to hope that meant he was cranky, not dead, and then he moved on to reassess his objectives. Get Cross out, or locked up somewhere safe. Locked up would likely be easier. After that, the recording. After that-- He shook his head. 

The lack of an exit strategy in his plans was now a major flaw. He couldn't leave Cross here. It was fifty miles of hard (if fascinating) terrain to the nearest town. 

His phone vibrated. It was a text from Zef: _He ditched us. On our way._

That took care of that. Zef would get Cross home. Magpie just had to make sure Cross was alive when they arrived. Luckily, that meshed nicely with his previous goal of making sure everyone else was dead. 

 

**7\. For the Devil his own self**  
Okay, it'd been pretty goddamn stupid. Cross was prepared to admit that. Not out loud, definitely not to Magpie, but at least to himself. 

He was tied to a chair in the middle of a large, empty space. There was a skylight right overhead, about forty feet up. Cross could hear the patter of rain start up against the glass. 

The doctor stood in front of him. He wore a dirty lab coat, pink Converse sneakers, and heavy-framed glasses. His hair was blue-black and glossy, like feathers. Like a magpie's, maybe. Cross had never seen one. 

"So you're Magpie's new friend."

"Not really."

"You seemed friendly at the hotel." 

The doctor showed him pictures. Maybe there'd been a camera in the room. Maybe they'd been taken through the window. It didn't matter. Cross couldn't help staring at the look on Magpie's face as they kissed, as he watched Cross come. 

"One night stand. Anyway, he knows you'll kill me just like her. He won't fall for it again."

"So he did tell you about dear Maggie. He must like you very much."

Crap. Cross could almost see her: pale face like Magpie's, black hair in the mud, eyes closed. Or maybe they'd be open. You had to close dead people's eyes, didn't you? 

"The thing is, he knew I'd kill her before he said a word." The doctor shrugged. "Human nature. Isn't it wonderful? I'll leave you two alone." 

He set a digital recorder down on the floor and pressed play. He walked away as Magpie's voice echoed through the huge room. It sounded ragged. Broken. It paused every once in a while and restarted after a cry from another voice, a woman's voice. 

At the first sob--from Magpie, not his sister--Cross tried to stomp on the thing, but it was just out of reach. His hands were tied. He couldn't plug his ears. He had to listen. 

Time passed. Magpie kept talking. 

Cross was trying so hard to shut everything out that it took him a while to realize the screams weren't coming from the recording. Neither was the gunfire. Both came closer. Cross thought of Magpie; he couldn't help it, but surely it was a stupid assumption. He'd be all sneaky and spy-like, right? This might be some random attack. A guy like the doctor, for sure he had enemies. 

Cross fidgeted. The ropes burned against his wrists, fibers digging into his skin like tiny splinters. Magpie's voice went on and on.

The door banged open. There were two loud shots and a spark off the floor. The recorder skittered off into a corner and started to smoke, silently. Magpie stumbled in, barred the door behind him, and came to stand in front of Cross. He looked down at him, and then looked to the recorder. He cut Cross free and took two steps toward the recorder. He fell to his knees. 

Cross pulled him back to lean against his chest. One of Magpie's eyes was swollen shut, a bruised and bloody mess. There was a bloodstain on his shoulder.

"Sorry," Magpie said. "Things didn't...go as planned." 

"Bullshit. You never planned to get out of this alive." 

"Mm."

"Too fucking bad. Those guys of yours must be right on my tail. All we gotta do is hold out, right? How many are left out there?" 

Magpie shrugged his good shoulder. "I killed maybe thirty. Set explosives. After those go off--" He was interrupted by a loud crack of sound. The floor vibrated with it. "Say, fifty. Maybe less." 

"Okay," Cross said. He dragged the bigger gun out of Magpie's grip. "Okay. So. How do I use this thing?" 

"My job."

"Oh, shut up. You can't even walk." 

Magpie showed him the basic points and set it to fully automatic fire. He lapsed into silence after that. Cross had to poke him every few seconds to make sure he was still conscious. And alive. 

Between pokes, Cross stared at the door. His muscles were wound so tight that every part of his body ached with it. Shouts and footsteps got closer. When the doctor's people managed to break the door down, he opened fire.

It was funny. He didn't seem to hear any noise, like an action sequence in a silent movie. People fell like bowling pins. He and Ban used to go bowling one a month. Cosmic bowling, where everything was lit by blacklight and the fog machine spread ghostly little fingers out over the alleys.

He blinked. Magpie was squeezing his hand.

"Time to reload," Magpie said, and coughed.

He reloaded, hands suddenly shaking to the point where he almost dropped the stupid gun, twice. He kept expecting shots or a rush of men through the door, but there was nothing. And then he heard someone calling his name. 

"Cross! Magpie! Fucking cease fire!" 

He poked Magpie hard. "Is that Zef?"

Magpie nodded. 

"I'm ceased, okay! Get in here, he's hurt!" 

Cross expected a whole SWAT team of superspies, but it was only Zef and Guy. Fortunately, they'd brought a helicopter. Cross pocketed the recorder before they left. It should be burned. Incinerated. It needed more than just a couple of bullet holes. 

***

Two weeks later, Cross and Magpie stood on the edge of a cliff and dumped the recorder's ashes into the sea. Magpie had lost the eye, but was otherwise reasonably whole. Zef and Guy had gone back to explain things to their superiors. Cross had opted to stay. 

They looked out over the ocean. A fine, grey mist made it hard to distinguish surf from sky. 

Magpie pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Cross. It was full of I.D. papers--passport, birth certificate, all that jazz. They all had Magpie's picture on them. 

"What's this?"

"It's a new life. Zef gave it to me before I left."

"Thought you meant to kill yourself." 

"Maybe I did." 

"So, what, I should call you--" He studied the papers again. "Chris now? Chris Wolfe. Huh. Well, it's a good name, I guess. At least he didn't stick you with Eugene or something." 

Magpie, or maybe Chris, brought his hand up to his mouth as he laughed. 

"Hey, what?" 

"Chris. Cross. Zef has a terrible sense of humor." 

Cross groaned and refused to laugh. They walked back along the path to the little hospital. 

"Did you know there's a theory that this whole area used to be part of the Antarctic continent?" Chris said. 

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. And it has some really quite fascinating geological features. I'd very much like to see the Perito Moreno glacier. Oh, and the petrified forest! Doesn't that sound interesting?" 

"I can think of a few other words for it," Cross said. 

He guessed he'd go, all the same.


End file.
